


The Last Time I Saw You

by Taste_is_Sweet



Series: Soldiers of Fire and Shadows [13]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Come Home, Claire Temple is a Saint, Gen, Illya Kuryakin Needs a Hug, Illya no, Protective Illya, Revelations, Sick Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-23 12:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet
Summary: Illya nods absently as he pulls the note close and finishes unfolding it. Claire's watching him as he reads, so she sees the exact second his face goes white.





	The Last Time I Saw You

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song [Wobbly Bones](https://youtu.be/IBXOxkf8vgY) by Chris Velan. Don't be fooled by the song's title or catchy tune; it's one of the most chilling songs I've ever heard.

"You know, if you keep showing up like this, everyone will think I am your boyfriend."

The disastrous meeting with Matt has been careening around Claire's head all afternoon—it's why she's here now—but she still manages a grin. She knew Illya was going to say that. "Lucky you." She thanks the nurse who was kind enough to go find Illya for her, then waits while he gets his winter gear out of the staff locker room.

"I have to admit," she says carefully as they walk into the grey twilight of the evening, "I didn't see you working as an orderly. Especially not in the palliative care ward."

"No?" He raises his eyebrows at her in seemingly mild curiosity. If she's hurt him, he hides it well. "What did you see me working as, besides spy?"

She purses her lips, thinking about it. "I don't know," she admits at last. "Something less ordinary."

He offers his elbow the way he always does. She's happy enough to take it, though it makes her miss Luke yet again. Almost everything about Illya couldn't be more different, but his size and gentle courtesy are close enough to cut her a little deeper every single time. If she had any self-preservation at all she'd either forget Luke and let herself fall for Illya, or she'd drop Illya like a hot rock and stop doing this to herself.

Then again, if Claire had any kind of self-preservation she wouldn't have met Illya in the first place. Or Matt. Or any of them.

Besides, she likes Illya.

"I have spent my life doing less ordinary things," Illya says. "This is first job where I do not have to hurt anyone." His smile goes wistful and self-depreciating. "And most of the patients are my age. Age I should be. And feel. It is nice, to talk to them."

"I'm glad," Claire says. "I've never worked in palliative care, but I know how important it is. And how hard it can be. I'm sure they must appreciate you."

"The nurses appreciate that I can lift all the heavy things."

She laughs the way he intended her to, but can't help adding: "I doubt it's just for that."

He makes a very European moue. "Probably. I have many charms."

"Keep telling yourself that." She laughs when he looks at her in exaggerated offence. He has a truly fantastic way of using his whole body when he rolls his eyes. "Yes," she says, relenting. She snugs closer to his side. "You are extremely charming, Illya."

"I know." He grins down at her, then carefully removes his arm so he can wrap it around her shoulders instead. "So, where are we going on our date?"

It takes Claire a moment to stop deer-in-headlighting so she can answer. "Um, I thought we could get something to eat. There's a Chinese place near my apartment that's pretty good. I have a favor to ask," she adds quickly, because this really, really isn't a date and she would hate for him to think otherwise. In another life it could be, but in this one she wants Luke to be her lover, no one else. No matter how much she likes them.

Illya doesn't answer. Claire can't tell if what's keeping him silent is relief, disappointment or something else entirely. She glances up at him; her vantage point is perfect to see the slight ticking in his jaw.

"What kind of favor?" he asks. His tone is so neutral it's actually unsettling. He hasn't let go of her physically, but it feels like he's taken about ten steps to the side all the same.

"I thought you knew we weren't dating," she says, because maybe it is disappointment that's made him pull back like this.

"I know this is not a date," Illya says in that same neutral tone. "What do you want me to do?"

"Translate a note," she says. She looks up at his face again in time to see him bob back in surprise. Then he tilts his head so she can actually see more of him than his jaw.

He looks confused, a little wary, even. "You want me to translate note? Nothing else?"

"Well, I'll probably call you the next time I have to scrape Matt off the pavement, but…for tonight, yeah. That's it. It's partially in Russian and since you know Russian, I thought you wouldn't mind translating it for me."

"No, I would not mind," he says slowly. She can feel him relax by increments, dismantling the wall he'd raised just moments before. He takes a breath that presses his ribs into her side. "I thought you were going to ask for…something less ordinary. I don't do that anymore."

Claire's so startled by his assumption that she can't keep back the burst of incredulous laughter. "You thought I was going to ask you to murder someone?" She has her arm around his waist, so she takes advantage and hugs him, briefly resting her head against his chest. "For the record, I will never ask you to hurt anyone for me. I will never ask you to hurt anyone for me, Illya," she repeats, to be sure he heard her.

She watches his throat work as he swallows. "Thank you."

"I will absolutely ask you to move furniture."

He laughs, small but genuine, and pulls her that much closer to him.

Claire smiles.

* * *

Illya orders in what must be fluent Cantonese, given their server's shock and delight. Claire, of course, has no idea what he says to the woman as he hands back the menus, but the way she glances at Claire with her eyes twinkling and then gives him an eager, nodding smile isn't entirely comforting. Neither is how smugly pleased with himself Illya looks after the server leaves, unnecessarily smoothing out the thick stack of disposable plastic sheets burying the tablecloth.

"You told her it was my birthday, didn't you?"

"Of course not." Illya looks affronted that she would consider such a thing. He smiles warmly. "I told her I was going to ask you to marry me tonight, so she agreed to bring something special."

Claire nearly chokes on her tea. "You really did that?"

"No." Illya smirks like the smug Russian asshole cat who got the cream. "I asked for something off the menu, for you to try. You're welcome."

"Oh." Claire gives him a mild glower over the rim of her teacup. They're the ones that look like very small bowls; Illya could probably fit eight of them in his palm. He just keeps grinning back at her, completely unrepentant. "I hate you," she says.

"You know you love me."

"I find you mildly amusing. How many languages can you speak, anyway?" Claire asks, before they get into a full-blown mock argument.

Illya tilts his head, eyes moving as he thinks. "Fifteen." He hesitates. "Sixteen. But that was my mother tongue."

" _Sixteen?_ You speak sixteen languages?" Claire gapes at him. She's proud that she can speak two. Sixteen is…she doesn't even know how to categorize that. Genius territory? Inhuman?

 _Super soldier_ , she thinks. It's still mindboggling.

"Vanya—" Illya cuts himself off, grimacing. "Bucky could speak 29 or 30. It was not so easy for me. I did not have his gift." He puts the chopsticks down very carefully, making sure the tapered ends are perfectly even on the little chopstick rest.

His guilt is like another wall; one Claire knows she can't break. Tonight she doesn't try. "I think anyone would say being able to speak sixteen languages means you have a gift for it," she says, staying to the safer conversation. "Thirty is unbelievable." Literally. She can't wrap her mind around it. "But sixteen is incredible enough."

Illya looks up at her again. He seems a lot younger suddenly, a lot more vulnerable. She wonders what he was remembering. "They punished him, when I didn't learn fast enough." His smile is thin and pained. "It was good incentive."

"I can imagine," Claire says softly. She can imagine it all too easily, thanks to that fucking Special Issue of _Time Magazine_. She's sure the pictures would be easier to forget if she wasn't friends with someone who suffered through all of it. "I know it makes no difference, but I'm so sorry you had to grow up like that. No child should have to live with that kind of fear."

He gives a little head-tilt shrug, but his forefinger is tapping at the crook of his elbow. "It was all I knew. With other things: Judo, chess, fighting, mathematics…even boats, I was fine. No problems. But only sixteen languages…." He shakes his head, wry twist to his mouth "They said I was very stupid. The only other boys who learned so few were…." He trails off, looks away.

"Were what?"

"It is not important." Illya gives her a warm smile that chills her for what it's hiding. "Ah, here is meal."

He looks so grateful for the reprieve that Claire doesn't have the heart or will to ask the fate of the boys who couldn't learn a mere sixteen fucking languages.

She can guess well enough anyway.

* * *

The meal is delicious, something she's more than happy to let Illya be pleased with himself about. He deserves it, and it dispels some of the sorrow that's been dogging him. Claire waits until the plates have been taken and they're finishing their tea before she pulls out Matt's note. She unfolds it from a square to a rectangle, flattening the paper with her fingertips.

"I told Matt what he has in common with you," she says, suddenly hesitant to slide the paper across the table. "I told him how I knew someone fluent in Russian, but he didn't want you to see this, in case the note revealed too much about him. So I said you already knew about…what he was, because you saw his suit. Which was true. But he noticed how I kept almost saying something and then backing off, and he called me on it. So I ended up having to tell him where you really knew him from." She sighs. "You were right. He didn't take it well."

"I was hoping to be wrong," Illya says, turning the tiny cup in his fingers. "What did he say?"

"That it was bullshit and you were lying to me," Claire answers flatly, then nods when he blinks. "He was really, really angry that I'd even suggested it. I think it was more that he didn't want to believe me, rather than that he actually didn't."

Illya grunts in agreement. "It is not easy truth to bear."

"No," Claire says softly. "No, I guess not." She frowns, smoothing the note again. It…angers her, she realizes, that Matt got so pissed. Illya hadn't hurt him. Hell, Illya saved him from face planting on the floor, for God's sake. And while she knows nothing about the other Super Soldier who wrote the note she's still holding, that guy _saved Matt's life_. Surely knowing that both these men are _good_ —truly, unambiguously good—despite what Hydra did to them, would've been enough to get Matt to tone down the self-righteous fury.

"I can understand it, why it would upset him so much. But…" Claire gives a quick huff of breath. "But at the same time, I don't. I mean, why does it matter where his abilities come from? Shouldn't it matter more how he uses them? Matt's a lawyer. Why can't he be more logical about this? Your origins don't have to define you."

Illya's mouth quirks at one corner. "The heart has reasons that reason doesn't understand."

Claire arches her eyebrows. "Russian proverb?"

He shakes his head. "French." He smirks. "One of the few languages I can speak."

"Yes, because you're such an idiot." Claire slides the note over. "Here. Hopefully you can make heads or tails of this. Matt's hoping there'll be something in it that might help find him."

Illya nods absently as he pulls the note closer and finishes unfolding it. Claire's watching him as he reads, so she sees the exact second his face goes white.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asks, leaning forward and reaching for his wrist. He's crumpling the note in his trembling fingers and his eyes are half-terrified and half-dead, flicking over the paper. She's seriously worried he's going to throw up, faint, or start flipping fucking tables. "Illya?" Claire gets up and goes closer to him, crouching just a little so he can see her eyes. She puts her hand on his forearm, holds it firmly in the hopes it'll ground him. "Illya, look at me. Look at me, Illya. Come on, just turn your head."

He does, snapping his attention to her. The blank shock of his expression is unnerving.

"Good. All right. Can you breathe with me?"

He jerks his head in a nod, then follows her through a couple sets of controlled breathing until light comes back to his eyes. Illya blinks and tears run down his cheeks. "This…this is real? Matt gave this to you?"

Claire nods. "Yeah, it's real." She slides her chair over so she can sit closer to him, then puts both her hands on his arm. He's still shaking. "He told me that the man who saved his life gave it to him. What is it, Illya?" she asks gently, "what's going on?"

"This is Vanya. Bucky," he says. He rereads the note then looks back at her. "I know his writing. And…" He swallows, wipes more tears. "He wrote some of it to me. For me. With his name. Both his names."

"What?" Claire stares at him, then looks at the first couple lines of the note. She still can't read it. "How? How can he still be alive? I thought—fuck, the _whole world_ thought he was dead." She looks at Illya. "You're sure? You're absolutely sure about this? This is from him?"

Illya nods again. He still looks shell-shocked; numb except for the red rimming his eyes. "He wrote it to me, Claire. And, look." He shows her the three words at the bottom of the letter. One in Russian, two in English. Only one is particularly legible. "Vanya," he reads. "Bucky. James. Didn't you see that?"

Claire shakes her head. "I only read enough to know I couldn't read it." She pulls her hair over her shoulder. There's even a star, like using 'X' instead of a signature. She hadn't thought it meant anything, before. She can barely believe it does even now. "What did he write?"

"Nothing," Illya responds so fast Claire blinks at him. "He asked me who was the man in his care. He was afraid he would forget and kill him. I can read it to you, but…" He spreads his hands in helpless fear. "But it's nothing. His mind is not working. That is all."

"I'm sorry," Claire says.

"I have not seen him like this, before. Bad, yes. But not so bad as this." He reads the note again, hand over his mouth. "I must find him, Claire," he tells her as soon as he's put the paper down. "I have to help him."

"We can tell the Avengers," Claire says. "They can help. And they should know about this."

"Nyet!" Illya barks. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. "No," he says, calmly this time. "Not yet, please. He is…." He looks at the note again, wincing like he's in pain. "You can see…You see he is not well. He does not know who he is. But he knows me.We do not know what Avengers will do. If they try to take him, he will fight. If he fights, people will be hurt. People will die. Maybe him. And I can't—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. His eyes are glistening again, huge and imploring. "Please, Claire. Do not tell them."

She takes his nearer hand, holding tight. "What if he hurts _you?_ "

Illya shakes his head. "He has never hurt me."

"All right," Claire says. "I won't tell anyone about this." She narrows her eyes. "So long as you let me know you're all right. If you go after him and I don't hear from you, I _will_ contact them. I'm not risking you."

"Yes, yes. Fine. You will not risk me." His lips shape something like a smile for her as he folds the letter and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He stands, gets out his wallet and leaves a $100.00 bill on the table. "The safe houses always had money," he says when Claire's eyebrows go up. "I have been remembering them."

"Nice," Claire murmurs. He's paid for the meal plus one hell of a tip. She puts on her coat, pulls her hair out of her collar, then grabs her bag. "Where are we going?"

"We are walking to your apartment. Then I will go and talk to Matvey," Illya says. "Maybe he knows more than he said."

"Uh, no. We're not doing that," Claire says, though she doesn't resist when he takes her hand as they leave the restaurant. She's not short, but she still has to walk very briskly to keep up with him. "What we're doing is me calling Matt. He was in a really bad place when he left this afternoon, and he doesn't know you. If you just show up, even if he doesn't beat the crap out of you, he's not going to tell you a damn thing."

Illya snorts. "I am not worried about him."

"Yeah, well, I am." Claire stops, digging in her heels. Illya's too much of a gentleman to drag her with him so he stops too, swinging around to glare. "His world just fucking ended, Illya. Everything he thought he knew about himself is wrong, and wrong in the worst way possible. He's not going to welcome another Soldier with a smile and open arms."

"Then I will make him."

"No you fucking _will not!_ Illya!" She grabs his hand with both of hers and pulls, making sure he doesn't move. She knows he could spin and toss her like an Olympic hammer, but he's a good man, so he just stands there with his eyes glinting in anger. "Here's what's going to happen. I _call him_ , which is what we do in this century, so he doesn't freak the hell out. And then if he says 'yes', we're going together and you will _talk_ , instead of snarling at him like a rabid dog. And you're not going to _make_ him do anything."

She doesn't add, _Or I'll call the Avengers_ , because he's not a toddler and she's sure he can hear the implicit threat. His nostrils flare with banked anger and his free hand taps against his thigh, but Claire isn't worried. He won't hurt her; she knows that with the same conviction he has about Bucky.

"Let me help you," she says, much more gently. "We both want the same thing here, Illya. I just don't want to hurt my friend more than he already has been."

His jaw twitches. "I would not hurt him."

"I know." She does know that, but it doesn't change how Illya and Matt are both equally upset and extremely dangerous. "But you're not threatening him either. Am I clear?"

Illya stares at her a moment longer, then deflates a little, nodding. "Yes. You are very clear." He gestures with his free hand, but he's too pissed to make it look sarcastic. "Please, call him."

"I am. Keep your shirt on." Claire keeps her hold of his hand, leading him further up the street and into a relatively clean-looking alley. There may not be many people around, but she doesn't want to have a conversation with Daredevil while standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

She fishes her phone out of her bag with one hand so she doesn't let go of Illya's. She finds Matt's number and calls him.

He picks up on the third ring, which Claire wasn't actually expecting. "I'm kind of busy." 

"Are you all right?" The way he's breathing sounds like he's running, but she can't hear anything like gunshots or people chasing him in the background.

"I'm fine," he responds, clipped and still obviously angry. "I've just got a lot of ground to cover tonight. So I don't have time to talk."

And yet he answered the phone and is still talking. She doesn't bother pointing that out. "Illya's with me. He read the note your rescuer left—"

"You _gave_ it to him?"

"Yes I did," she snaps. "He speaks Russian and I trust him. And you brought that note to me, to help you, Remember? Because you've been imploding for months and don't have anyone else. And since I’m trying to help you _like you asked_ , you could say 'thanks', instead of ripping my head off for something I had absolutely nothing to do with."

Illya is holding his hand out for her phone. Claire shakes her head, but switches it over to speaker.

"You're right," Matt says stiffly a moment later. His breath is slower, so he's stopped running. "I'm killing the messenger and you don't deserve it. I apologize."

He sounds like a kid in the principal's office. Claire only doesn't roll her eyes because he might be able to hear it. "Thanks." She wants to ask him if he's okay, but it's obvious he's not and Illya looks close to putting his fist through the wall. "I'm calling because Illya knows who rescued you. It was Bucky Barnes."

The silence stretches, goes taut. "He's dead."

"No, he is not," Illya says. He leans closer to the phone. "I recognized his writing, and he wrote his name." He frowns a little. "His real names, and the one Hydra gave him. But he crossed them out."

"Illya told me the note makes no sense at all," Claire adds. "He's in bad shape, Matt. Like you said. Maybe worse. He needs help."

"He is not dead, but he will be if we do not find him," Illya says. He takes a breath; Claire's sure Matt will hear the shudder in it. "He is my brother, Matya. Please help me find him."

"That's what I was doing, when you called. Looking for him," Matt says, just short of snarling it. "I was hoping the note would have some kind of clue of where he'd go. But it's like he vanished."

 _Or he died._ Claire glances at Illya, knows by the set of his jaw that he's thinking it too. "Where are you now?"

"Near the Hudson. He brought me to a building around here. I was hoping he wouldn't've gone far."

"Try Brooklyn," Claire says. Illya frowns for a moment, then his eyes widen in comprehension. "That's where Bucky was born. He might be looking for something he recognizes."

"Yes. Yes, of course. Good idea, Claire." The praise is perfunctory. Matt's mind is already elsewhere. "Tell Illya I'll meet him at the Park Row Exit stairs in forty minutes."

He hangs up.

"Well, fuck you too, Matt," Claire sighs to her silent phone. She clicks the screen off and puts it into her inside jacket pocket, shaking her head in annoyance. She looks at Illya. "Want a ride to the Brooklyn Bridge?" she asks him, because clearly she has no self-preservation whatsoever.

"Yes. Thank you," he says distantly. He murmurs something to himself in Russian, then gives his head a quick, sharp shake. Throwing a bad thought away. "We should get your car."

Claire takes the lead again, still holding Illya's hand. "You're going to find him, all right? You and Matt will find him, and you'll get him food and water and whatever he needs and he's going to be fine. You'll have your brother again."

"I know," Illya says. He doesn't sound like he believes it.

END

[Vanya's note.](http://imgur.com/a/PtKwb)

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [SmilingWSoldier](http://smilingwsoldier.tumblr.com/) for very kindly (and amazingly quickly!) translating Bucky's note, and especially to [Shazrolane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shazrolane) for both the text of the note and the pen-and-paper version you can link to just above.
> 
> Here is the full text ( _English_ ; **Russian** ):
> 
>  **I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I know I’m sick. I have to** _get your medicine. I’ll be right back_  
>  _PS be rig_ **ht now, the mission is impor** _portant that you stay here, got that?_ **Illya I don’t know who this man is**  
>  _I don’t_ **understand**  
>  **I was keeping you warm. I slept. I think Time slips, I lose when I am if I forget you you might will die. Be well. Stay away. I do not wish to kill you.  
> **  
>  **Vanya**  
>  **Bucky** _Bucky_  
>  _James_


End file.
